Cod Almighty | Match Report

by Tony Butcher

20 August 2025

Here we are again, two legacy teams with their legacy support eating their legacy sandwiches, merely content filler for the mass media oligarchs in our plutocratic state of bliss. Here we go round the mulberry bush again in the Buckley Derby.

Town lined up in their leisurewear and lingerie autumn collection in a 4-3-3, some still insist 4-1-4-1, formation as follows: Pym, Rodgers, Tharme, McJannet, Green, McEachran, Khouri, Burns, Kabia, Vernam. The substitutes were Auton, Warren, Staunton, Turi, Walker, Amaluzor and Gardner. A gentleman never wears brown in town they say. That's the old ways from the old days, it looks rather fetching; there's kits causing retching out there and that ain't one of them. We'll start as we usually mean to go on.

Walsall, fashioned if you will on olde Milano, with two Town old timers, Matt and Comley on the bench. Ah, such sweet, sweet memories. Have the youngsters forgotten already that Matt scored his first Town goal only ten seconds into his debut, and against Gordon Banks to boot! What, not Jammy Matt? Please, don't wake me, no, don't shake me, leave me where I am I'm only Teesing.

Right, saddle up, we're on our way. Roll cameras.

1st half – On the roof
Walsall kicked off away from the Town contingent, 729 sardines in a televisual tin can, what a treat.

Homesters in a hurry, a flurry of feathers, all sound and fury. Nothing but noise. From us.

Tic-tac-toe, Burns reversed his polarity and Fluid Jaze glided across the suspiciously green, green grass. Is it a weave, a toupee or just a transplant? Do they dye it? Kabia drifted down the right, swung his pants and the ball dislodged a half-eaten sausage half way up the stairs. When the sun has gone to rest that's the time that we love best. A crinkle, a winkle, and Kabia oozing down the right, roaming in the gloaming, a cross homing in on the corridor of emptiness betwixt keeper and old brown shoes. I'm so glad we came here I'm telling you.

I'm telling you now, I know it's been said before but there's nothing to tell you about Walsall. The club, the town. They just exist and we move amongst them. Town underhitting, overhitting, rarely hitting the heights. Hey look, look over there! What's up Doc? It's Burns. Burnsy. Not a Darragh Burns, the Darragh Burns burning rubber now and again. An oop-and-under lazily dropping to the edge of the Walsall penalty area, Roberts stuttered, Flint sauntered, Burns and Kabia loitered. The ball flibbled off purple toes, Khouri hash-browned and, it is my assumption, it landed in Spaghetti Junction.

And then suddenly, the world was different. The Milano blinkers were a-hurrying and a-scurrying, belting their braces, getting in Town's faces. Wiggle, waggle, whack. Warrington's central skidding scudder shazammed towards the bottom right corner. The yellow custardian watched, waited and intercepted the balloon with a shake of his fabulous fists to parry aside.

Harem scarem, stone me! Eyes down for a full house. Rodgers' dummy set Hancock free on the half hour. Ah, you see, young Hancock had always wished to build a road through Harvey's garden. Never mind the marrow, Town were too narrow. Pym flew low to push away the cross. The ball boumbled upply and Christie the yellow diver spread his wings as Lakin tried to fly, blocking brilliantly, thrilliantly.

Stuttle ached and ailed over Tharme. Enter stage left two clowns with their ever-popular collapsing stretcher routine. Stuttle returned. Stuttle collapsed and that was that, eventually, as Old Uncle Albert Adomah simmered on the touchline and finally zimmered on.

Homesters heaving, trippers cleaving. Corners and long chucks hurled and curled, back and out, out and back, Jellis arose alone six yards out, dead centre. A kerplonking thwonk and Pym parried uply and a little peep was heard afar as Old Albert had parked his mobility scooter on Pym's yellow lines, forgetting to use his blue badge.

Droopy drops and sloppy slops, a simple coil deep into the night, way beyond the static caravans. Kabia slunk away, slinked around the breeze blocks and slabbered against the inside of the near post, the ball squibbling across the face of goal, wobbling the woodwork and out for a corner.

We opened our eyes and to no-one's surprise eight minutes were added.

If anything should happen we'll be sure to give a ring. Let's just have a sing instead. You hum it I'll play it. What the one about the fish?

Flappings and slappings from afar that barely knocked a distant door ajar. Is that it? And as sure as eggs is eggs that surely was it.

A half of two halves and everything but the goal.

2nd half – On the hoof
Neither team made any changes at half time.

What a rubbish free kick Young Mr Charles, sir. Stop doing that.

It's the battle of the little bigballs. Balls up, balls down, it's bazooka time. Bigging and bugging, many a Mariner subjected to a mugging. Heads, heads and heads again with Townites chasing their tails amid many a home wail.

And the ball sailed on and on into the night.

Saddlers camping, Town clamping. Heads up, something's up here. Green nodded clear. Last man Hancock crumpled on the halfway line and Kabia ran away with the golden spoon. A final striper was lured into his web and a simple flick sent Vernam free, straight down the middle, on his own, solo, without impediment, with no humans this side of Mars. Or a Chunky Kit Kat. The Wolds Panther advanced, the purple plunger crept forward and…and piffle and wiffle. There was a hissing sound as Slim Charles deflated against Roberts and the ball boobled back to Burns who cleared the stand.

Up and down, up and down, bing, bang, bong as Walsall hit it long. How long can we keep hanging on? A clearance collected by Cox and clattered agin the bar from afar. He hit it…and it didn't go in. Phew.

Chip it, chase it, wangle and dangle, what's the angle? McJannett chased and superbly slither-slid away. Long chucks, balls in the box, corners and crosses, hurls and curls, hit high, hit over and hit out. Lurkers lurking, no Town shirking, everyone working.

And all the while Town had mini-breaks, just a night or two here and there, a little light shopping and some sight-seeing after some cross country drives through quaint olde Englishe villages. Patience, passing, patented patient passing, left and right. Burns scuttled, shimmied and dinked to the far post. Green levitated and blimpled back and down past the star gazing star jumper. Flint scrumpied off the line, straight in the flightpath of Khouri, who slampered high and mighty into the net.

And, as may be considered appropriate in the circumstances, the crowd went wild. Well, that little corner of the West Midlands that was temporarily Grimmish.

Walsall kept throwing on more lampposts. They may be taller, but are they brighter?

Humps, dumps and lumps. A freekick dinked, a big bloke winked, Duck Farm grazed, Holman on the hunt. A hook back, a noodle and lightening Pym pattercake and a home head headed in. Is this the light at the end of their world? Hah, the lights went out all over Walsall. A flag fluttered in the distance and home hearts sank.

Burns and Kabia were replaced by Walker and Gardner. Moments of almostness as micro breaks floundered on underhit tapping and misplaced rapping. Misplaced rapping? Sounds the sort of thing that may happen in Tetney. On a Thursday.

Vernam walked off and on came Amaluzor. Big J had a curious impact, a chaos engine with expandable limbs here, there and everywhere, yet nowhere. Ker-boom, ker-boom, our roses are still in bloom.

Eight minutes were added. Why? How?

Well, one side was repellent, the other resplendent. Can we hold on to the dream? Gardner persisted and finally fell for a foul. McEachran's free kick hit the wall, but in a better way than the Chazzatola. Amaluzor's bendy legs rubber-souled around redsters. Scrimps and scrapes and slaps and spats and Town heads nodded sagely. One last Walsall heave and up went their keeper. A noddle past the panicker in purple and Amaluzor was felled just outside the Town area with open acres afore him. A yellow card for Roberts and red heads drooped.

And there we have it. Craft and graft as Town smashed and grabbed against impotent roofers. You can't have a pearl without grit.